Mourn Again
by Galatria57
Summary: A one-shot reflection on Thorin and Thranduil's relationship. ThorinxThranduil


Author's Note: I cannot, for the life of me, figure out how to get indentation to work in document editing.

* * *

It is the first few centuries after his wife's passing that are the hardest. For the first time in his existence, Thranduil cursed the blessing that was the privilege of the elvish people. His immortality plagued him, and during those dark, bleak years Thranduil craved the escape of death.

But it was not to be so. King of the Mirkwood Elves, Thranduil had duties. To lead his people, to maintain their heritage- these were his ties to reality and escape from the abyss within himself, forged by her absence. Thranduil grasped at the mundane with the determined desperation of the drowning, emerging a more focused and prudent leader through his despair. Fiercely determined, he repressed blazing memories of dragonfire and destruction. However, the bright recollections of her face, her laughter, were no less painful. These, too, were stored away, and Thranduil, with no small amount of relief, gracefully willed his heart to ice.

There was no small price to pay, however, for this reprieve from his nightmare. Centuries, a mere blink to the king, had passed before he was able to look upon his son again with any real awareness and without the pain of seeing her face.

 _Legolas_.

Thranduil had called him to his throne room for a private audience as soon as it occurred to him that he had not seen his son, had not truly looked at him since her loss. Guilty, he realized that it had been decades, perhaps even centuries since he had truly known him. Certainly there had been the occasional gesture, a young, orphaned elf given to him as a playmate in reparation for the warmth that he himself lacked. But when Legolas had stepped into the room that evening Thranduil had struggled to maintain his composure. Legolas had his mother's brow, her proud bearing, but more than that he had become a young man. Immediately, Thranduil resolved to know his son better. Legolas was his heir, the future of their people, and the king could not mourn forever.

It was time to engage with the world again.

And so he did. While diplomatic missions had been delegated out to his high-ranking officials, Thranduil left his realm for the first time in what felt like millennia. He selected a simple mission with a personal motive: Erebor. Successful negotiations with Thror would provide not only wealth for his people, but also the re-casting of her most favoured jewels of starlight, beloved by all.

* * *

Thranduil's first impression of the dwarf prince is that he is a licentious tease. Thorin stands beside his grandfather on the throne and opposite his father, and the same impudence and stubbornness is mirrored in his brooding, blue eyes. Barely bearded, the prince is wearing a loose tunic that reveals his furry chest. Thranduil is no stranger to the dwarvish people, but this is the first time that he finds their coarseness so appealing. This is also the first time that he has taken an interest in anyone other than his departed queen.

It is Thorin's gaze that bothers him most. While Thranduil makes the appropriate welcome to the ancient king, the young prince stares him down determinedly. From the corner of his eyes, Thranduil notes the focus on his hair, his lips… Hiding a shudder, he shoots a disconcerted glance at the prince. It is only momentary, but from the brief flash of blue boring into blue, Thranduil struggles to maintain his composure. In that gaze there was the stark reflection of mutual attraction.

Ashamed of himself and confused, but no less regal in bearing, Thranduil accepts the occurrence as an anomaly. Nevertheless, he makes a point of returning to Erebor as often as he is able: to check on the progression of his most valued treasure, of course.

* * *

It is on one such visit that Thranduil unravels. Shortly after the discovery of the arkenstone, but before the effects of dragon sickness became apparent in King Thror, Thranduil went to Erebor as one of many royals. The festivities are grand and each nation pays homage to the wealth of Durin to continue their mutually beneficial relationship. The humans play instruments, the dwarven kings tell stories, and Thranduil has his own act prepared.

To the frail tune of an elven harp and flautist, Thranduil performs the royal dance of starlight, depicting the beginning of all things. The moves are sinewy and he wears a long, ornate silver robe that complements his complexion, setting off the pale gold of his hair. As he moves, watched and uninterrupted across the floor, Thranduil is aware of the prince's gaze. It is not a seduction, he tells himself.

But of course it is.

Much later in the evening, as the crowd thins and long after the ribaldry has died down, Thranduil is one of the few left in the hall. As he stands, he pointedly catches the eye of the young prince and, despite himself, holds his gaze. Approaching his room, Thranduil dismisses his attendants. He is attended, after all, by the prince who lurks in the shadows, and steals softly into his chambers.

This is not what he wanted, Thranduil thinks, as he stares uncertainly into the deep pools of the prince that nervously regard him. Yet despite himself his legs move forward, and before the door is fully shut behind them Thranduil has claimed the prince's lips with his own. Deftly manoeuvring, Thranduil navigates the young prince towards the edge of the bed, pushing him down until he is sitting on it. Kneeling before him, Thranduil once again pays reverence to the line of Durin as he frees Thorin's member and slurps at it greedily.

The prince's gentle mewls cause a reaction within himself he does not understand, and one painfully physical reaction he cannot ignore. Swallowing down the remnants of his prince's satisfaction, Thranduil lays wordlessly on the bed as Thorin kisses his way down to Thranduil's own swollen manhood. Lifting the silken robes, the dwarf prince inexpertly repays the favour.

Afterwards, Thranduil is content to have a few stolen moments of lying together in his chamber. Their silence is mutual and filled with contentment. Before he leaves, Thranduil steals another kiss.

* * *

A later visit is far more tense. The symptoms of the dragon sickness are becoming apparent, and negotiations for the jewels of starlight are not going well. During a brief moment of reprieve, the prince unexpectedly steals into Thranduil's guest chambers. No time is wasted as Thranduil roughly inserts a digit into his willing acolyte of the pleasures of the flesh.

Surprised but pleased, Thranduil notes that his lover has already prepared himself. Leaning him against a table Thranduil claims what is his, delving deeply and passionately into familiar territory. Leaning over, Thranduil kisses his prince's neck possessively while stroking him roughly.

As they cry into their mutual climaxes Thranduil marvels at the gift of this man. It has been a long time since he has felt wonder.

* * *

The next time he sees his muse, the conditions are far less favourable. Foreseen by all but the dwarves themselves, Thror has invoked the wrath of Smaug through his covetousness. Against the advice of a few of his councilmen, Thranduil assembles the Mirkwood forces and rides to the site to see what can be done. It is a diplomatic mission, he has deemed it. To see what might still be salvaged, to re-claim their treasure before it is lost.

In his most secret heart, Thranduil acknowledges that his true purpose is to ascertain the safety of his most valuable possession. As he sits majestically atop his elk, Thranduil breaths a subtle sigh of relief as he sees the familiar head emerge from the crowd. Suddenly, it strikes him how much older his princeling has become. The effects of the passage of time a mild shock, a reminder of an invisible but inevitable outcome for all but himself and his people.

The dwarf prince cries for help, but Thranduil knows there is naught to be done. Dragons and hellfire are all that await in Erebor, and Thranduil has already experienced more than enough. Satisfied in the safety of the prince and the futility of further efforts to save the mountain, Thranduil turns away.

He knows that he is likely invoking the wrath of his companion, but he is also wise. Time provides hindsight, and he assures himself that the next time this prince and he meet, there will be understanding.

* * *

When he is dragged in from the forest with the others, Thranduil trains his face into a mask of practiced disinterest. He has known, of course he has known that this proud, fierce king would seek his own kingdom. He knew it when he looked into his eyes as a prince. He knows it now as the man stands before him. He also knows how it will end and so, although aware of the futility of his request, Thranduil demands that he does not continue with his plan.

Later, when brought for a private meeting in his chambers, Thorin reacts as he expects him to: angry and callous from his purported betrayal. But Thorin has not seen what Thranduil has experienced. Through his hard-headedness, Thorin has forgotten the horrors of dragon fire. But Thranduil cannot do so. The lesson is etched deep into his heart, marring his skin and strengthening his resolve.

The fight turns to blows and Thranduil captures the long, matted black locks in one hand. Holding Thorin's gaze up to his own, Thranduil notes the gaunt, haunted expression and knows that there is nothing he can do to change the course of his destiny.

Damn, that dwarvish stubbornness.

And so, Thranduil instead claims Thorin's lips. The struggle is brief and the intensity of their skirmish thrums in each passionate embrace. Thranduil pulls Thorin towards him and after a brief struggle, has his cock freed and within his grasp. Thorin gasps at each stroke as Thranduil holds him against his chest, licking his neck and fervently whispering elvish nothings into his ear.

As Thorin cries out his release into Thranduil's hand, the Elven King can wait no longer. Gently, he leads Thorin to his pillowed chamber and lays him tenderly on his back. There is no resistance as Thranduil gently probes the access he seeks. Deep blue meets pale as their gazes lock, the former softly moaning his acceptance. When Thranduil enters it is with no small relief. He intends to be gentle but cannot help losing himself the to the warmth of his prince. Their frenzied grunts are muted as Thorin reaches up and captures Thranduil's lips in embrace. This is his undoing.

Afterwards, sated, when locks of the deepest black are entwined with his of burnished gold, Thranduil watches the sleeping king as he lies curled up against him. It is not peace, this feeling, but it is definitely close. Unexpected but no less relished, Thranduil savours the warmth of the coarse, compact body, having not been held since his last encounter with the king. As he drifts into sleep, Thranduil bemusedly wonders how many others this ruggedly handsome man has allowed to embrace him, for elves do so only with their Ones.

It is a painful thought, but he is not jealous. Nevertheless, Thranduil drapes his arm possessively, holding him tighter.

When he wakes, still in darkness, Thorin and his company are gone although the sheets remain warm.

* * *

Her words. "There is no love in you."

Oh, how he longed to growl in reprimand, "you couldn't possibly imagine." But to do so would require a certain amount of acceptance of the dwarf's place within his heart. And there was no love there- only warmth and determination, accompanied by the steady _drip, drip, drip_ and the crackling of ice.

* * *

With the sight of Eru and the wisdom of the eternal, Thranduil foresees his death before it occurs. Through the throng of the battle, Thranduil makes his way towards the frozen lake, where the final stand off is underway and where he knows he must bid farewell, as is the way with all mortal things. The press is thick and his body numb, but with a ferocious determination Thranduil swings his blade and sprints as Thorin takes his final fall.

As he cradles him in his arms there is the familiar flash of cerulean recognition, and then the peaceful disentanglement from the world that Thranduil himself will not encounter until the end of days.

The scene is familiar, and through watery sight Thranduil feels the same despair.

Although, this time there is no coldness.


End file.
